He tried to wet his lips and his throat bobbed almost painfully.
“Phillip Rojas—de Roja—red. It was like red hat or red fish. I didn’t—maybe Felipe—no, Phillip. He had a very strong British accent. Spanish last name, British accent.”
Sinclair squeezed his eyes shut, it was like he was willing himself to remember.
“San—Zan—Xander—something. He sounds German—no more South African than German. Maybe. Zander Visser.” He gasped out the last two syllables like he’d run a marathon to get to them.
The next two names came out even more garbled, but it was a starting point.
“Mykel—Michael—Mikael—somethinglike that—I don’t—God, I don’t remember—justMykal,okay?”
“Jochem—Jorchan—Jon—something Russian, definitely Eastern European.”
“That’s four and a half,” Lunchbox said. “And Russian is not the same as Eastern European.”
Sinclair sobbed. “I don’t—I can’t—most of the time I only ever had a first name. You have to understand, I didn’twantto know their names. I didn’t want to know too much.”
“Just enough to make money,” I said, not an ounce of sympathy within me. I glanced at Alphabet and he gave a mild shrug. We could work with it.
I turned toward Ignacio. His breathing had gone ragged, panic rising like steam off his skin.
“You,” I said, stepping closer. “What do you know about these five?”
“I—I only—only heard of two,” he gasped. “Marcos and Joaquin. They—they were the ones who handled theshipments—they were?—”
Joaquin or Jochem? Was it the pain that was shredding the names or did they really not pay that much attention?
Voodoo stepped closer, remote angled lazily in his fingers.
“Don’t lie,” he warned softly. “I’ll know.”
Ignacio whimpered. “I’m not—I swear—I’m not—I only dealt with the handlers—ground-level—never the bosses—I swear—I swear?—”
The collar around his throat beeped a warning tone as Voodoo adjusted the contact sensitivity.
Ignacio froze like an animal smelling the knife.
“Then tell me something useful,” I said. “Somethingreal.”
“I—I can give you the containers they used for special cargo,” Ignacio blurted out. “The ones with double-backs, false floors, temperature control—ones that don’t get random inspections—I can—I can—there were three main ones they trusted?—”
He rattled them off. Named ports. Named longshoremen who were on the take. Alphabet typed.
Lunchbox stalked a slow circle behind him, rope tapping rhythmically against his palm.
Sinclair stared at Ignacio with pure terror—because Ignacio was too willing to talk now. Too desperate. Too loud.
Apparently, the attorney was figuring out that if Ignacio talked, Sinclair’s value dropped.
Good.
I leaned forward, bracing my hands on my knees so I could meet Sinclair’s eyes directly. He flinched back like I’d swung the rope myself.
“Now,” I said quietly. “Tell me how you contacted these people. Every method. Every drop point. Every burner. Every code. Every middleman. All of it.”
He shook his head frantically. “I can’t—it was always different—always—different cars—different phones—different buildings—they—they’d tell me to show up somewhere and—and a phone would be there or—or a person already waiting—or a voice through a grate—I don’t know—I don’t?—”
“You can remember,” I said.
